


Dark With a Sense of Coming Doom

by pocky_slash



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Dubious Consent, Established Relationship, Foreshadowing, Haunted Houses, Horror, M/M, Possession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-10 04:59:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/782069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocky_slash/pseuds/pocky_slash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a storm makes driving impossible, Erik and Charles put the recruitment roadtrip on hold to shelter for the night in an abandoned house. Despite the empty rooms, something's set Charles on edge and Erik may live to regret asking what it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dark With a Sense of Coming Doom

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the **fan_flashworks** "Ghosts and Gore" challenge. There isn't enough thanks in the world for **pearl_o** who is absolutely the greatest at beta-ing and hand-holding. ♥ Title from Stars' "The Five Ghosts."
> 
> **WARNING:** This story includes attempted sexual overtures of dubious consent and mild violence. For more (spoilery) detail about these warnings, please see the further notes at the end.

"That's it," Erik says. "I'm pulling over."

The rain is unrelenting. It's been battering their car for half of the trip from New York to Boston, but Erik has been driving nearly blind since they were forced to turn off the highway in the face of a downed tree. Charles has been navigating by penlight ever since, squinting at a roadmap and rubbing his temples periodically at the strain. There are no streetlights and even the houses have tapered off to nothing but trees.

It's been a long two months, but Erik can't say it's been hard or that he's regretted a second of it. Even losing Shaw stung less in the wake of the realization that there were others like him. And the trip from Miami to Virginia, the discovery of Cerebro, Charles' master plan to find and recruit more mutants--it's been a whirlwind, but one decidedly more exciting than the upheaval Erik has come to expect from his life. He's laughed more in the past two months than he has maybe in the past ten years combined. He and Charles have criss-crossed the country meeting other people with extraordinary gifts, sharing chess games and cocktails and motel beds, becoming so intimately acquainted that Erik has considered, for the first time, that there might be a life worth living once Shaw is finally disposed of.

That is, if they can manage to get to Boston tonight and locate their last few potential recruits.

"There's...I think there's a house up ahead," Charles says. His eyes are closed tightly.

"Are there people there?" Erik asks. Erik is of two minds about Charles' power--it's a brilliant strategical advantage and incredibly practical at times. Erik can sometimes tell if someone is near by feeling out the metal on their person. Charles can tell exactly how many people are in a given area and what precisely they're thinking about from miles away. The other side to this is the knowledge that Charles could easily turn that same power against Erik. Erik loves Charles and, more than that, he trusts him, but he can't help but be wary. His mind has always been his own, even when his body has betrayed him. It's in his nature to protect it.

"No," Charles says. "It's empty."

Erik isn't sure how Charles saw it first, then, but it's only a few yards down the road that Erik sees it too--a huge, hulking monstrosity of a house set back from the road, dark and shuttered. He pulls the car off the road as best he can, the muscles of his shoulders and arms untensing one by one as he pulls his hands from the steering wheel. If not for his powers, he doesn't know that he could have made it even this far.

"Good timing," he says to Charles, who's staring out his window up at the house.

"Hm," Charles says. There's something stiff about him, a greyish tinge to his skin. A month and a half of travel and the terrible weather must not be agreeing with him.

Erik considers their bags in the back. On one hand, he's loath to risk leaving his briefcase in the car and out of his sight for any period of time. On the other, his notes and research will be of little help if they're soaked. Their suitcases may fare better. He reaches for his, and when he sits upright again, Charles is still staring out the window.

"Charles, come on," he says. He reaches out to shakes Charles' shoulder and Charles starts at the touch, pulling away swiftly. He stares at Erik, his eyes very blue even in the gloom of the car. "Charles?"

"I'm--sorry," Charles says, shaking himself and offering Erik an uncertain half-smile. Erik doesn't return it, merely studies Charles in the dim glow of the penlight. He looks exhausted. They've spent the last five days in New York city, packed as it was with people and, Erik supposes, thoughts. They had only one subject take them up on their offer out of a dozen potentials. Charles' optimism was almost irritating through all of it, but reality had to catch up sometime. At least now he can sleep it off.

"Get your bag and let's go," Erik says. He reaches for the door, but before he can pull the handle, Charles' hand closes around his arm, squeezing almost to the point of pain.

"No, Erik, wait," he says, and when Erik turns back, there's something haunting about his expression, something that gives Erik pause. 

Instead of snapping, he takes a breath and says, "Is something wrong?"

Charles hesitates.

"I don't know," he says. "I just--can't we stay here?"

"In the car?" Erik asks. He's slept worse places in worse conditions, but it seems silly to do so when there's a perfectly good house right there.

"I...nevermind," Charles says. He lets go of Erik's arm, but the place his fingers were burns through Erik's shirt.

It's a dash through the storm up to the house. The trees offer little cover and they're both soaked by the time they're through the ancient wrought iron fence and up to the house. The door gives easily, even without Erik giving the lock a push. The inside is musty, but furnished and dry. Erik's footsteps are muffled by the carpet and send a cloud of dust up in his wake. He turns around, flicking the penlight on to investigate further, but Charles isn't behind him. Charles is still standing on the porch. He rubs his temples and the expression on his face is not dissimilar to the one that was present in the crush on the New York subway.

"Is someone here?" Erik asks. The thought of a threat is enough to put his senses on alert, a burst of adrenaline pulsing through his veins, the result of too many years spent looking over his shoulder.

Charles doesn't say anything, though. He shakes his head and rubs hard at the space between his eyebrows.

"N-no?" he says.

He enters the house slowly and then pulls the door shut behind him. The noise echoes through the house, even over the sound of the storm. Something is wrong, obviously, from the way Charles is holding himself to the slant of his mouth, but he's not the only one who's tired and Erik doesn't know that he has the energy to play twenty questions right now. 

It's been a long time since Erik's cared for another person, but he remembers the steps and the affection he feels for Charles overpowers his long-cultivated habits of ignoring the discomfort of others and general social cues. He's tired, but he can still offer this. He sets down his bag and approaches Charles slowly, reaching out, first brushing his temple and then squeezing his shoulder. Charles leans into the touch.

"Are you feeling well?" he asks, and Charles sighs.

"No," he says. "I expect I'm burnt out from the city. My head feels...odd."

He doesn't elaborate further. He's tense when he closes his eyes and presses closer to Erik. He's as cold and damp as Erik is, but it feels different on Charles, who's so often warm. Erik strokes his back and wishes for a bed, even as the house creaks around them with a strong gust of wind. Charles tenses, and Erik wonders, suddenly, if Charles is afraid.

"I am," Charles says. 

"It's just an old house," Erik says. He hopes it sounds comforting. He presses his hand between Charles' shoulder blades, stiff and awkward, but hopefully sincere enough to make up for it. 

"It's not the house," Charles says. "It's...."

He trails off. The sounds of the storm fill the silence, and in the wake of Charles' admission, they're ominous in a way that disquiets Erik. There's something strange about the house, about the situation, about the atmosphere, but he can't pin it down.

Charles gently pushes him away.

"It's nothing," Charles lies. It's obvious in the way he won't meet Erik's eyes, in the way he's even more tense than he was even moments before. "Let's find somewhere to bunk down for the night, hm?" 

His fingers are cold when he takes Erik's hand to lead him away, and his grip is too tight, but if he wants to keep his concerns to himself, it's not Erik's place to ask.

He lets Charles lead the way.

***

If Erik was sentimental, he might have fallen in love with Charles the moment he laid eyes on him. Charles doesn't hesitate to admit the same, to tell Erik that it was his "brilliant, singular mind" that ripped Charles' heart from his chest. Erik felt the same pull, the sudden, violent relief of companionship that chilled him to the bone as he realized he was not alone in the world, not a freak, not an outcast. He didn't survive for so long by leaving himself prey to his emotions, so he resisted past that initial rush, though he knew he was caught the moment he gave into Charles' plea to stay, before, even, he allowed himself to be pinned down by Charles' hands and lips in the heady aftermath of the first session with Cerebro.

He tried to take his time. He tried to keep a level head. He's not sure he succeeded, but he tries still to bring the same pragmatism to all his interactions with Charles. It's easy to get swept up in Charles' enthusiasm, Charles' emotions, and Charles' love. Erik needs to keep his mission clear, despite what he feels.

This, though--this is difficult. Maybe it's something about the storm or the house, but Charles is unsettled, even if he denies it. Erik can see it in the way he glances sharply at things that aren't there, the way he startles at every noise, the way he won't let go of Erik's hand. Erik wants to hold him, to coddle him, to comfort him and beg him for some direction, for a way to help. 

Charles is a grown, fully capable adult. Erik has asked multiple times, given him multiple chances to explain. He's chosen to keep it to himself, and who is Erik to question that choice? The subject should be closed.

Except every time Charles flinches, Erik's chest aches.

They're exploring the house, looking for a suitable place to sleep, taking in the darkened rooms. It's old and full of dust and stale air, but otherwise innocuous and well-kept. Erik is trying to do a room-by-room inventory made more difficult by Charles' insistence on clutching his hand and moving only reluctantly.

It's strange, a house so meticulously ordered but abandoned to disrepair. It's not been ransacked or looted or even packed away. It would have been appalling in its waste fifteen years ago, but Erik has become used to seeing extravagance so easily discarded by the privileged. This evening, his disdain is merely curiosity. The table in the dining room is set for twelve. The place settings are immaculate, as if the hosts set the table and simply walked away, as if the guests never came at all.

There's something else strange, too, something still lingering that he can't put his finger on. There's something bothering him, something that's been different since they pulled off the road, since before that, maybe. It's still niggling at him, but he can't concern himself with trivialities at the moment. There are other things to worry about, things like the tenseness in Charles' shoulders that still hasn't abated. Charles stays close, his eyes glued to the table. He's shaking. Erik gives in to his weaker instincts and squeezes Charles' hand.

"Stop telling me you're fine," he says. His voice is low even though they're alone--there's a strange pall over the place that keeps creeping in, as though they're in a museum, somewhere they're not to touch or disturb. Charles' mood is obviously getting to him as well. He's only humoring Charles' fear because Charles' stress is beginning to affect his own state of mind. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Charles' eyes are all but glowing in the cast off light of Erik's penlight, wide as they are. He's chalk white and a distant part of Erik's mind can't help but think how beautiful he looks, even in spite of the terror. Erik's never wanted someone like this, so constantly and relentlessly, and even now, suspicious and wary and frustrated, a part of him is flaring up at being so close and having his hands on Charles' skin.

"Charles!" he snaps. He raises his voice and Charles looks away quickly, then back at Erik again.

"I think...I'm--I think something happened in New York," he says. His hands clutch at Erik's arms, the grip nearly painful. "I keep...seeing things, hearing things, but there's no one here. I can't explain it. It's like an...an echo, but I can't shake it."

"An echo?" Erik asks.

"I don't know how else to explain," Charles says. He looks over Erik's shoulder at the table again. "I don't know if I can't explain it to a non-telepath. I--I don't know."

"It's been like this since New York?" Erik asks. "Why didn't you say something sooner?" It's been at least three hours since they left the city, but aside from complaining about the traffic, Charles hasn't mentioned any discomfort.

"It's only been about an hour," Charles says. "I just. I just need quiet. I just need to sleep. I think I just need to sleep."

He squeezes his eyes shut and Erik takes a breath and then another. Sleep. He can do that. He can help with that.

"Okay," he says. "Upstairs. We'll find a bedroom." 

Charles relaxes, just slightly, and loosens his grip, lets Erik lead him out of the dining room and back the way they came to the staircase at the front of the house.

They're halfway up the stairs before the missing piece clicks in Erik's mind. It's not the presence of something strange that's bothering him, it's the lack of something. He's alone in his head. For the first time since the start of this trip, the distant warmth of Charles' presence is absent.

***

Erik's dreams are strange. Years of shallow sleep and his mind's defense mechanisms has left him with either dreams he never remembers or a barren grey landscape that isn't worth remembering anyway. Tonight is different--flashes of a past that isn't his, of people he doesn't recognize and a house that he does, the house they've been wandering through all evening. The dark wood paneled rooms twist and shift in his perception until they're a different house and Erik recognizes these people--a little girl with long blonde hair who's more than what she seems and a little boy steeped in respectability in an effort to win the love of parents who don't care and those eyes--Erik would recognize them anywhere--and then it's too bright, all blue and golden and washed out from the sun and there are tears in Charles' eyes and he's lying in Erik's arms, he's crying out in pain and it's like Erik is being ripped in two--

He sits up drenched in sweat. His ears ring against the rapid beating of his heart and he centers himself, feels for the familiar metal of his suitcase, the coin, Charles' watch, and then turns to Charles who is twisted in the bed sheets.

The storm makes the dark of the bedroom nearly impenetrable. Erik summons his penlight and clicks it on. Charles' skin looks grey and the fear on his face sends Erik's heart racing all over again. He drops the light in the sheets and shakes Charles hard.

"Charles! Wake up!" he says, but Charles resists and pulls away from Erik's grip. Erik grabs for him again, but Charles curls away from him, avoiding his hold until Erik is forced to climb on top of him and pin him to the bed to keep him from hurting himself.

"Charles!" he says again, and Charles slumps in his grip. His eyes are still closed, but he doesn't try to pull away.

"I'm sorry," Charles says without opening his eyes.

"You're awake," Erik says. 

He realizes, belatedly, that he should get off of Charles, but before he can move Charles says, "Don't."

Erik doesn't move.

"Charles?" he asks, and Charles shifts underneath him--

No. It happens again and it's deliberate, it's definitely deliberate, Charles is rubbing up against him. Charles is half-hard and getting harder and he tips his head back and makes a low, needy sound in the back of his throat as his hips jerk beneath Erik's ass, just shy of actually touching.

Erik freezes and stares down at Charles, at his slick, open mouth, at the way he's writhing under Erik, straining for contact and panting. Erik's body reacts--he can't stop it, he can't help it, Charles is under his skin and deep in his head, he's infected Erik with a constant thrum of wanting that never really goes away. There's something not right about this, though--moments ago, Charles was helpless and terrified in the thick of a dream, and not even Charles Xavier, king of cheerful veneers, can change direction quite this seamlessly.

"Charles!" he says again, the words sharper, and that's when Charles opens his eyes.

The light from the penlight, now tossed aside in the sheets, isn't much to go by, but it's enough. It's enough for Erik to see that Charles is most definitely not Charles, enough to kill those stirrings of desire because he'd know Charles' eyes anywhere and the cold, black gaze sneering back at him is completely foreign.

"I know you want it." It's Charles' voice and Charles' mouth but somehow _not_ Charles. He doesn't know how to explain it but he _knows_. He pushes down on Charles' wrists, but Charles just arches his back into the movement and grinds himself against Erik again. Erik feels sick, sick enough that he hesitates just long enough for Charles to flip them over.

The penlight clatters off the bed and rolls into the corner, casting grotesque shadows on the walls. Charles holds him down with surprising strength and again drags his erection against Erik, his lips curled in a twisted mimicry of his usual sly grin.

"I know you want it," Charles says. "I know you want this body. I've been inside your head. I know what you want to do to this body."

"You don't know anything," Erik growls. "Leave him alone!"

"I'm not doing anything he doesn't want to do," Charles says, but it's not Charles and Erik needs to stop thinking of him that way. "He's _depraved_. Not like you, though. He doesn't want to break you. He doesn't enjoy the thought of your blood on his hands." That's smile again. It curdles Erik's blood. "Fuck me," it says with Charles' mouth and the words, the shape of his lips make Erik swallow, but it's still all wrong. "Hold me down and take me and break me. It's what you want. You want to destroy him."

Erik's vision goes red and he yanks his arms free and sends Charles flying off the bed and onto the floor. It's only when Charles raises his head, smirking through a bloody nose, that Erik realizes what he's done.

"See?" Charles says. "He knows it, too. Deep down he knows you're going to ruin him and he doesn't care. He thinks he can stop you. You and I know differently." Charles gets to his feet, unsteady, and Erik moves too, stumbles off the bed. His movements are clumsy and uncertain. He can barely breathe. This is Charles, but it's not, it's not at all, and Erik doesn't know how he can fight something that's using Charles' body against him. He's hurt Charles enough already. "You can't love anything. You certainly can't keep anything. The good doctor made sure of that, and now that he's not around to snuff out everything that catches your interest, you can't help but pick up where he left off."

"If you want to hurt me, then hurt me!" Erik shouts. "Take me, leave him alone and do what you mean to do to me!"

"I'll let you hurt yourself, I think," Charles says. "It's better that way, don't you agree? You'll kill the doctor and then you'll become him and that's really the ultimate horror for you, isn't it?" Charles pushes himself off of the wall and stalks slowly towards Erik. His eyes are still black but there's an unearthly glow about them. Erik takes an involuntary step backwards. "Turning into your tormenter, denying the only person who dares to love you, and then breaking him into pieces." He's close enough to touch, now, for Erik to smell his aftershave and the scent of his skin. "You'll leave that beach with blood on your hands, and not the blood you want." He leans in, saying slowly, "You'll turn your back on your salvation because you know, deep down, you're not actually worth it."

Erik shoves him backwards, forgetting again that he's not going to let this happen, he's not going to lay a finger on Charles, except that he has to. He has to stop this madness, he has to quiet Charles however he can, he has to stop these lies from pouring out of him, has to separate him from whatever has hold of his soul. He shoves Charles again, and Charles laughs, but it's like nothing Erik has ever heard. It's certainly nothing like Charles' laugh, and that gives him the strength to push again and again until he has Charles up against the wall, pressed to the plaster which seems to glow as well. The walls glow and Charles is glowing and still sneering at Erik.

The walls. The house. He needs to get Charles out of this house.

"Getting away from here isn't going to change anything," Charles says. "Leaving this place isn't going to change what's inside of you. You're broken, Erik."

"Shut _up_ ," Erik growls. He leans an arm against Charles' throat and closes his eyes. He can't watch himself do this, he has to trust instinct and memory and his other senses. Charles' hands claw at his arm, his nails scratching Erik's skin, but Erik doesn't move. He keeps Charles' air cut off until he stops struggling, then another five seconds for good measure.

When he opens his eyes again, the room is properly dark, save for the dim glow of his penlight in the corner. Charles is slumped forward against him, and Erik murmurs, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," as he gathers Charles into his arms.

It's still raining, but they're not staying here a moment longer. He places Charles on the bed and packs their bags as quickly as he can manage. He pulls his damp clothes back on and dresses Charles quickly and messily before hefting Charles over his shoulder and dragging their suitcases downstairs and back out into the storm.

***

When Charles wakes up, Erik is staring out the window of their motel room. He feels the bedsprings twitch and then hears the soft exhale that means that Charles is returning to consciousness. It's odd that he makes the same noise whether the sleep is natural or artificially induced, but Erik is happy enough to hear it that he doesn't pay it much mind. He turns, heart in his throat, but Charles is blinking at him with the same clear blue eyes that he's come to love and Erik exhales, hands shaking.

"Good morning," Charles says. He rubs his eyes and then his throat. His voice is hoarse. Shame twists in Erik's gut as Charles looks around the room. "Where are we?"

"A motel outside of Boston," Erik says. Then, before he can give in to sentimentality, to the need to hold Charles in his arms, "How much of last night do you remember?"

Charles opens his mouth and then frowns.

"What happened?" he asks.

"How much do you remember?" Erik repeats.

"I--well, we left New York," Charles says. "It was raining and once we got into Massachusetts there was a tree down on the highway and you gave me a map to navigate for a bit and--and I don't remember. Did I fall asleep?"

"Not exactly," Erik says. He crosses the room to sit on the edge of the bed, examining Charles more closely. It's his Charles--the eyes, the smile, his tone of voice, everything is as it should be, save, maybe, for the furrow forming on his brow. He touches his throat absently and Erik feels another stab of lingering guilt.

"What happened?" Charles asks again. "May I...?" He touches his own temple and Erik grabs his wrist before he can continue. He tries to keep his grip gentle, despite the surge of adrenaline.

"Please don't," he says. "Charles--trust me. Please. Don't."

Charles frowns at him and chews on his bottom lip. He studies Erik's face and only then glances down at Erik's hand, still curled around Charles' wrist. His eyes go wide in alarm.

"Erik, what happened?" he asks, touching the raw gouges on Erik's forearm. And Erik curses himself in the next moment, as he forgot to clean Charles' nails after he put him to bed in the motel. There's still dried blood and skin caked underneath them, and that doesn't escape Charles' notice. "Oh god, did I do that to you?"

"It was an accident," Erik assures him. "Don't worry about it. I'm fine. So are you. You're fine, aren't you?"

Charles seems to take inventory--he looks away thoughtfully and then raises a hand to brush the back of his head, his nose and jaw, his throat.

"My throat hurts and my head," he says. "But I'm fine. Erik, you still haven't answered my question." He brushes the side of Erik's face with the back of his fingers and Erik can't help but think he's not deserving of that sympathy. He should have sensed something was wrong earlier. Charles was clearly uncomfortable in the house--he wanted to sleep in the car, for god's sake, Charles Xavier who complains about the mattresses in every terrible motel they stay in. Erik should have known something was wrong and instead he pushed the issue and allowed something to...violate Charles.

He can't take that back. He can't fix that.

"We stopped at a house," Erik says. "It didn't go well, so we left. I don't want to talk about it." He raises Charles' wrist to his lips and presses a kiss to his pulse point before releasing him. Charles is still studying him, even as he leans forward for a kiss.

Erik hesitates.

"I don't want to hurt you," he says, leaning backwards, just out of Charles' trajectory.

"You haven't hurt me thus far," Charles says, his lips curling into a wry smile. "I don't expect you to start now."

"I won't," Erik says, and allows the kiss this time. The words are a promise, whether Charles knows it or not. He's not sure what happened at the house--he doesn't understand it and he doesn't want to think about it long enough to change that. It was a trick or an illusion--maybe an elaborate attack by Shaw's telepath from afar, maybe a defense mechanism from some other frightened mutant. Whatever it was, it's over, they're unharmed, and Erik is going to do his level best to make sure they stay that way. There's no need to worry Charles about it further. He's going to kill Shaw, but he's not going to become him and he's not going to turn on Charles. They're in this together and they're going to see it through together.

_I love you,_ he thinks, though he doesn't say it or even push it in Charles' direction. He holds on to and kisses Charles' fiercely, pushing away the memory of the thing that wore Charles' skin. He loves Charles. It wasn't enough to save his mother, but that was a long time ago. He's grown. He's stronger. He's not going to make the same mistakes again. He'll kill Shaw before he can lay another hand on anything Erik loves, and once that's over, they'll have plenty of time to work out the rest.

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilery warning: One character makes sexual overtures towards his partner while possessed. The partner uses physical violence to subdue him.


End file.
